


Of Slime And Time

by Omorka



Category: Real Ghostbusters
Genre: Ectoplasm, Frottage, M/M, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-19
Updated: 2009-12-19
Packaged: 2017-10-04 16:20:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/32131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Omorka/pseuds/Omorka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Peter and Egon deal with a particularly unpleasant sliming and some bad memories.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of Slime And Time

**Author's Note:**

> No spoilers. Originally written for the Small Fandom Fest at LJ.

The sole consolation Peter had from this bust was that at least this time he wasn't the _only_ one who got slimed. Egon's pipe-curl was as thoroughly flattened against his forehead as Peter's forelock was against his own brow, and the more scholarly Ghostbuster didn't seem the least bit happy about it, either. They were both dripping with the cold, clammy, slippery, sticky residue of the Class Five they were pursuing, except for that one spot on Peter's back, just above where the pack met his uniform, where it was already starting to dry. Ectoplasm _always_ itched when it dried, but this somehow seemed worse than most. Peter hauled himself back to his feet and snarled "Which way did it go this time?"

Egon carefully twiddled the knob on the PKE meter. It was almost as badly slimed as he was, and he'd already managed to lose his grip on it twice. "Judging from these readings, it went back towards the security desk. It appears to still be on this floor, fortunately."

"Yeah, I don't want to try and take the stairs like this." Peter's left boot was as coated as the rest of him, which made keeping his footing a tricky proposition. "Explain to me again why this job couldn't wait until we had a full team?"

"Because Raymond won't be back from his science fiction convention until Tuesday, Winston needed to be at his niece's wedding and will be out of town until tomorrow, and there had already been two injuries due to this particular full-roaming vapor. Besides," he added dryly as he swapped the PKE meter for his neutrona wand, "I seem to recall a certain doctor of parapsychology stating, and I quote, 'It's only a Class Five; we could take it in our sleep.' " He glanced in Peter's direction, ice-blue eyes flashing; just as suddenly, his gaze flicked down and then away.

Peter flinched; had he really said that? Some days his bravado just got the better of him. "I guess I'd better go take a nap, then, huh?" He smiled broadly, ready to cajole Egon out of whatever mood he'd just dropped into, when the ghost - a transparent form, barely more than two arms and a pair of eyes suspended in a cloud of ectoplasm - charged through the wall and barreled into him for the fourth time that night.

"Gyaaaagh!" Peter managed not to fall over as yet another layer of mucosal ethereal residue soaked the left side of his uniform. The vapor veered away, silent except for the wet patter of slimy droplets hitting the floor, as it had been all evening; a flickering stream from Egon's proton gun just barely missed it as it sank through the floor a few yards in front of the physicist.

"Damn, I almost had him," Egon sighed as he picked his way around the huge smear of ectoplasm on the floor. "Are you all right, Peter?"

"I'm not injured, but I'm wet, cold, and pissed as hell," Peter replied. "Are you sure this is only a Class Five, Spengs? Aren't they usually noisy? This thing seems to be operating in stealth mode."

"Usually, yes, especially if they're taunting their victims. But not invariably. And this one seems to be unusually intelligent - it's been using cover exceptionally effectively." Egon retrieved the PKE meter from his belt with his left hand. "It's still right below us. Stay alert - whooaah!" He failed to finish his admonition as the vapor erupted from the floor immediately beneath his feet, sliming him yet again from boots to belt and dumping him unceremoniously on the floor.

Peter swung his proton rifle around and fired without aiming as soon as the specter was clear of Egon. Firing from the hip was a good way of accumulating extra property damage, but stalking this thing just wasn't working. The shot was good, and Peter managed to snare it, just barely, in the proton stream. "Got you! When will you guys ever learn not to slime a guy with a particle weapon?" Egon's stream joined his, pinning the ghost and preventing it from diving through the wall behind it as it struggled. Peter's left hand went for the trap on his belt; he clicked the release - and promptly dropped the slime-covered device. Swearing under his breath, Peter kicked it into place beneath the Class 5 - close enough, anyway - and stomped on the trigger. He and Egon both flinched away, shielding their eyes from the sudden flash of light, and then relaxed at the familiar snap as the trap closed again.

"Well, we saved the day again, ol' buddy," grinned the psychologist as he scooped up the trap. "I think I'll charge them extra for the - " Peter was interrupted by the sound of Egon hitting the floor again. He looked back at his partner, trying to struggle to his feet in the middle of a puddle of slime and failing. "Whoa, whoa, hey there, Spengs, let me give you a hand up there." Egon looked up at him, gratefully taking the outstretched hand and pulling himself over the frictionless patch to a drier part of the floor before rising to his feet. His eyes met Peter's as he said "Thank you," but then they flicked down and away again, a faint color rising in Egon's face. The scientist swallowed, his adam's apple bobbing.

Peter frowned slightly - it wasn't like Egon to be embarrassed about accepting help. "Any time," he smirked, and tried to thump Egon on the shoulder, but the gesture only produced a loud squish. He shook off his hand in disgust, sending several thin strands of ectoplasm flying. "Let's get this gooper into containment and you and me out of these wet jumpsuits, hmm?"

"An . . . excellent plan," concurred Egon, stowing his neutrona wand and picking his way across the slime-splattered floor towards the atrium. His cheeks were still flushed; Peter wondered if Egon was embarrassed about the large splotch of slime decorating his crotch, or something else, but decided not to ask in favor of distracting him. Bragging usually worked, and for a two-man job, he was entitled. "I tell you, Egon, one of these days they're going to build a memorial to us for our services."

"Indeed. I very much hope it will be a pleasant funeral - white chrysanthemums, long eulogies, perhaps a band." Egon was still a little off, but he seemed willing to play along.

"Eeegooon! I mean _before_ we're all blown away sealing one last dimensional cross-rip. Some days, I just feel under-appreciated around here."

"I assure you, you are very much appreciated - in some circles." Egon seemed to be focused on a spot on the glass as they left the office building and headed towards Ecto. That was off, too; normally, Egon would be the first to try and puncture Peter's overinflated ego.

"Well, I'd better be! After all, I've sacrificed yet another hairdo to the fiends of the Netherworld." Peter preened in his reflection off of Ecto's side window as Egon stowed his pack and the gently smoking trap in the back. It didn't help - his hair was still soaked with ectoplasm, hanging limply in his face. It was an effort to peel his pack off - the drying slime on the straps clung to his uniform with surprising force.

"And what about my own considerable sacrifice along those same lines, I ask you?" replied Egon, settling into the driver's seat and fingering the remains of his ringlet. "You simply do not value the contributions of others sufficiently, Peter." The brown-haired Ghostbuster slid into the passenger seat, waved a hand casually at his blond partner, and assured him, "Oh, no, I'm quite aware of the amount of time, energy, and hair gel that goes into that thing. Let's go home, so you can start working on your next investment." He was rewarded for his teasing with a sardonic grin and the sound of Ecto's engine roaring to life.

\--

"Uggggghhhhh," Peter moaned as he climbed out into the firehouse's garage. "How is it that this stuff is so wet and nasty for so long, and then dries instantaneously and itches like crazy?" The spot that itched the worst was, of course, in the middle of his back, and he couldn't reach it; he settled for scratching the lines where the pack's shoulder straps had been.

"Ectoplasm has certain quasihydrophiliic properties," replied Egon, dropping easily into lecture mode. "It doesn't actually contain water, but it behaves as if it does, and when it is exposed to air, the etherostatic bonds that hold it together begin contracting, changing its structure. Unlike an actual drying procedure, it doesn't lose any mass as it does so, since it isn't actually emitting water molecules. But it transforms from an open, amorphous state that feels wet into a more compact state that draws water out from your skin, which causes the irritating sensation."

"Thanks, Egon, that made me feel so much better about it," grumbled Peter, yanking at the zipper of his jumpsuit and failing to budge it. "Oh, great, the slime's gotten the zipper stuck." After several more attempts to pull the tab were similarly unsuccessful, he tried in frustration to yank the collar of the jumpsuit over his head and found that it was quite firmly stuck to his skin. "Yeowtch!" Tugging at the cuffs of the suit produced a similar effect. A glance at Egon revealed that the scientist was in a similar predicament. "Uh, Egon? I seem to be glued into my suit, here."

"Apparently the ectoplasm from this particular spirit has unusually potent adhesive properties." Egon retrieved the still-smoking trap from the back of Ecto-1 and headed for the basement stairway. One hand made a darting motion towards the back of his neck, then returned to the trap, twitching. "Let me store it in the containment unit before anything else unexpected occurs."

Peter spent an uncomfortable few minutes cataloging the numerous places where he was stuck to his uniform, and where the rapidly drying slime was making him feel like ants were crawling across his skin. He managed to remove one boot that had only gotten splashed, but the lining of the other had pretty much become one with his pants leg. He was tugging off his right sock when Egon returned from the basement. He looked like he was even worse off; that last parting gift from the spook had gotten both feet and legs . . .

Peter realized with a start that he was staring at Egon's crotch, and that his partner's uniform was slimed tightly enough to him that Peter could not only tell he was Jewish, but might have been able to guess the mohel. He forced his gaze to his friend's face instead. "Hey, Spengs, I got one shoe off, but - "

"I know," nodded Egon. "I could tell by the smell from here."

"Ha, ha. Seriously, though, this stuff seems to have turned to crazy glue. How do we get it off? Before I go crazy from the itching, preferably?"

Egon looked upwards in one of his I'm-thinking-about-it expressions. "Well, guessing from the formicative sensation - "

"The _what_?" shrieked Peter. Egon looked at him sharply, and then his face flamed red. Peter realized he had misheard, and tried to cover over the misunderstanding. "Speak _English,_ Egon; you know I can't understand your five-dollar words, especially not when I'm covered with slime that's doing a good impression of a day-old sunburn!"

Egon cleared his throat and looked away from Peter, towards the stairs. "It means 'resembling the sensation of ants crawling on the skin,' Peter. And I know as well as you do that your vocabulary is nowhere near as limited as you like to pretend."

"Well, I never heard that one before, anyway. Good description, though," Peter acknowledged as he tried to scratch between his shoulder blades. The spots that had dried first were starting to feel almost blistered. "So what about it?"

"I was saying that it suggests that the ectoplasmic residue is absorbing water from our epidermal tissues, and possibly the protective oils as well, causing significant irritation. Not the sort that would be caused by radiation burns, such as the sunburn you mentioned earlier; this would be more like windburn, since it's a direct dehydration." Egon made another spastic motion and ended up tugging futilely at his jumpsuit's cuffs.

"So what can we do about it? I'd rather not stay in this suit until I can peel off the top layer of skin." Peter let the pause lengthen into exaggeration as he tried to scratch through the remaining boot. "Although, if the creepy-crawly-itch here gets any worse, I might consider it an option."

Egon clasped his hands deliberately in front of him. "We'll have to find a solvent to weaken the bonds between the ectoplasm and our uniforms."

"Like what? Turpentine?" Peter wrinkled his nose at the thought.

"Possibly. It's even possible that we might need to apply fresh ectoplasm to return it to its mucosal state - "

Peter groaned and left off scratching to fling out his hands. "You mean, we might have to _ask_ the spud to slime us? I don't think I could handle that, Egon!"

"I doubt that will be necessary," replied Egon, his clasped hands twitching slightly. Peter realized that the scientist was mightily resisting the urge to scratch. Egon continued, "Since it appears to be trying to draw water out of us, it is likely that getting it wet will be sufficient to weaken the bonds enough to get our uniforms off."

"Great!" Peter didn't even try to hide the relief in his voice that the scientist's first try would be nothing more complicated - or smellier - than a hot bath.

"I'll let you have the shower first," Egon continued. Peter shook his head emphatically. "No way, Spengs; I can see how hard you're trying not to scratch. Besides, if this stuff stays sticky, we may need some help peeling the uniforms off our hard-to-reach spots. We're both getting this stuff off as soon as possible. Come on!" He grabbed Egon's wrist and practically hauled his partner up the stairs.

"Peter, I hardly think it will be a stretch of my willpower to wait until you - " protested Egon as they reached the second floor. The green-eyed Ghostbuster turned towards his partner, interrupting him, "No, seriously, Egon. We are not staying in this stuff one minute more than necessary. What if it's mood slime and we just haven't noticed it affecting us? Hell, what if leaving it on for too long is causing skin damage? Neither your nor my vanity could take that!" Peter took the spiral stairs to the third floor by twos, still tugging Egon behind him; if his friend's reluctance surprised him, it didn't slow him down.

Peter burst in the bathroom door and immediately turned on the taps in the shower. Egon had recovered his balance from being dragged across the third floor and drew himself up again. "Really, Peter, I don't think - "

Peter ignored him, threw back the shower curtains, wrapped an arm around his friend's waist, and practically lifted the taller man into the tub, bouncing in after him with a flourish. "Doesn't matter what you think, Spengs; we're both wet now." Whether Egon had been right about the ecto-glue or not, he must have been right about the stuff drying out their skin; wherever the hot water touched him, the awful itching sensation fled. Peter luxuriated under the shower spray for a moment, just long enough to thoroughly soak himself, and then turned to grab Egon and swap places.

Unfortunately, getting the slime wet had changed it from sticky back to slippery. Venkman had one foot's worth of purchase on the bathtub, but Egon's boots were practically frictionless, as was his uniform; Peter's grab turned into a flail, and the two men collided and then went down in a tangle of limbs.

That was when Peter noticed - he really couldn't ignore it; he'd landed more or less on top of Egon - distinct evidence of his partner's arousal.

His head swung up, and emerald eyes met sapphire in a look of shock and curiosity. Egon looked blank for a second, then deeply ashamed as a blush deeper than crimson blanketed his features, then starkly terrified. He tried to push away from Peter and crawl out of the tub, and his longer limbs gave him enough leverage to shift Peter's weight away from his groin, but his ectoplasm-coated hands slipped from the sides of the bathtub as if they were greased. Peter shifted his weight and pinned Egon's legs. "No, no, wait, Egon, hang on. You okay? You sure this isn't, uh, mood slime after all?" He was vaguely aware that his own voice held a note of panic, which he forced down.

"No." Egon's eyes were closed, his face pinched, his hands pulled up in front of his face as if he expected Peter to belt him.

"You're not okay, or you're not sure it's not mood slime?" Peter tried to sound jocular, but he suspected he was only partly successful.

"I'm . . . it's not emotionally-charged ectoplasmic residue; while it appears to have stronger adhesive properties than most Class Five ectoplasm, and we should probably save a sample for analysis from our packs, it appears to be only chemically unusual, not psychically. Its readings were no different from Slimer's residue, except for its consistency and lack of color." The words came out in a rush. Egon was trying to change the subject; he squirmed under Peter's weight.

Peter brought his hands back to Egon's shoulders. He didn't think he could hold on if Egon tried to slip away, but it made him feel more stable. "Okay. Good to know. Now, are _you_ okay?"

"No. You haven't struck me yet?" The last statement, more a question than a statement from its intonation, made Peter suck in his breath; the steam-filled air made him cough, and he felt Egon flinch at the sudden motion.

"Why on earth - or, considering everywhere we've been, out of it - would I hit you?" The genuine puzzlement in Peter's voice seemed to make Egon relax a little bit; a fraction of the fear left the blue eyes behind the droplet-spattered glasses.

Egon shoved his spectacles further back onto his nose with one finger and slowly let out a breath Peter hadn't realized he'd been holding. "Do you remember that party at the off-campus apartments just after the last football game of your senior year?"

The question was such a non-sequitur that it took Peter a long moment to figure out which of several parties Egon was referring to. "Umm . . . was that the last one I took Missy to?" He reached around behind them with one hand, and tried to turn the shower off; he succeeded in reducing it to a warm trickle, but more than that would require letting go of Egon with both hands.

"Yes, that one. You insisted that Ray and I go along with you to help you drown your sorrows after missing the playoffs by one game."

Peter thought for a moment. "Honestly, Egon, I remember that it happened, and that Missy broke up with me later that weekend, but I went in with the intention of getting shitfaced and I succeeded pretty early. I don't remember much of the party at all, or anything that happened immediately after it. Why is this relevant?"

Egon cleared his throat, adam's apple bobbing. The flush across his cheeks redoubled as his eyes drifted down and leftward. "You downed three shots within a few minutes of getting to the apartment, then you switched to beer. I lost track of how many you had, but I was watching you for signs of alcohol poisoning and you weren't showing them yet. When your fraternity buddies started leaving to go to a different party, you and Missy didn't want to leave - some of her sorority friends were still there. You talked them, and Missy, and me and Ray, into playing Spin the Bottle with you."

"I did?" Peter was genuinely surprised. "I know I was trying to hook you and Ray up with some of her friends, but man, that's unsubtle even for me, even for then."

"You _were_ quite inebriated. You were also managing to get the bottle to mostly point to the girls on your spins, and they, naturally enough, kept choosing you on theirs."

"Uh huh. So what happened that's got you so freaked out now?"

Egon drew in a long, shaky breath and closed his eyes. "One of the other girls spun poorly, and the bottle ended up pointing at me. A Rolling Rock bottle, as I recall. Not your usual brand of beer, but they'd mostly run out of your preferred -"

"Egon. Quit blocking and get to the point." Normally, Egon wouldn't have even tried that blatant a distraction maneuver with Peter. The psychologist's features crinkled with concern.

"I - I had to spin it. I was hoping that it would end up pointing at Missy and I could simply refuse, on the grounds that I could not kiss another man's girlfriend. I - miscalculated, and it ended up pointing to you."

"So?" Peter was puzzled. "The rules are that if you get someone the same sex as you, you spin again."

"I know. I - I knew even then. But -" The droplets on Egon's throat danced as he swallowed again. Why was Peter staring at Egon's neck? He forced his eyes back to his partner's face as Egon worked the next sentence free. "I thought - I thought perhaps I could plead ignorance, since I'd never played the game before. I - succumbed to temptation. I kissed you." Egon flinched again, clearly waiting for a blow.

Peter sat back a bit, his hands still firmly on Egon's shoulders. "And then what happened?" he prompted.

"You really don't remember this at all." Egon's voice was flat, resigned.

The psychologist sighed. "No, Egon, I really don't. Although I think I'm starting to understand why Missy was so angry when she broke up with me. Go on, please."

"You - for a second, I thought you were kissing me back. Then you started yelling incoherently. Then you slapped me across the face and called me a 'filthy little faggot.' " Egon absently rubbed his left cheek with one hand, as if the blow still stung.

"I didn't." Peter wasn't denying that it had happened; he was just appalled that he could imagine those words coming out of his mouth.

"You did, I assure you. Then Ray wedged himself between the two of us and dragged me into the other room. One of the girls helped him; I think she tried to explain to you and Missy that I didn't understand the rules, and I was so stuck in my head and out of touch with my own body that I wouldn't have realized that kissing a guy was wrong. Indeed, she wasn't so far from incorrect on that - I didn't really realize what I was doing, or why I wanted to, and I would never have had the courage or the poor judgment to have done so if I hadn't let you and Ray talk me into having a few beers myself." Egon's voice was thick with self-loathing, and Peter looked down at his own right hand.

"I hit you, big guy?" Apparently self-loathing was catching. "And I called you _that_?"

Egon nodded, eyes still tightly closed. "God, Peter, I don't blame you. It must have been . . . horrible for you. I'm glad you don't remember, although I've always suspected that you did, at least a little."

"No, I really didn't. I thought you must have said something that insulted Missy by mistake, because she had a screaming hissy fit at me two days later for picking you and Ray over her. I never imagined it might be sexual jealousy on her part." Peter inhaled slowly, considering the tension he was holding in the pit of his stomach. He analyzed it, picked it into its component pieces, and wondered what to do about it.

Humor. Humor usually worked. For him, anyway; hopefully, it would for Egon, too. "Well, who can blame her? I mean, she was hot, and damn good in bed, but she was no competition for a leggy blue-eyed blond with such good shoulders, right?" Peter grinned, and was relieved to find that the grin was completely natural.

Egon's eyes flew open; his whole body jerked, sending droplets of mixed water and slime flying. "What?" he demanded.

"I gotta say, Spengs, I have to give you my gratitude for sticking with me after I said something that foul to you. Being drunk off my ass was no excuse, and neither was being young and stupid." Peter found his gaze had been wandering down the wet, clinging jumpsuit again, and made himself focus on Egon's eyes. "I had no right to say that, and never any right to hit you, no matter what you may have done or whether I was ready for it. But certainly not for that." He took another deep breath, because the next thing he had to say was never easy for him, no matter how much he meant it. "And I hate that you've carried that for all these years, never knowing if I really even remembered or not. Please believe me when I say I didn't. I am so sorry, Egon. Please, forgive me?" There. It was out. Some of the tension in his belly relaxed.

Egon's eyes widened. "Peter. Of course, Peter. I forgave you a long time ago. I - of course." For the first time since he'd tried to squirm away, he let go of the sides of the tub with both hands; they found Peter's forearms and squeezed gently.

"So, that's why you haven't gotten serious with Janine, then? Because you're gay? And you felt like you couldn't explain it to me because it would remind me of your telling me more directly?" Peter continued, deciding that it was time to get things out into the open.

"Not exactly." Egon frowned, looking down and to the right this time. "While I would have classified myself as homosexual at the time the incident occurred, I have since discovered that I can and do find certain women sexually attractive. It seems to have more to do with their personalities and mental abilities than their physical attributes. It happened with another graduate student during my time at MIT, and again with Janine. Currently, I would describe myself as somewhere between a 4 and a 5 on the Kinsey scale." The frown deepened into a scowl. "Not that my father would have approved of that, either."

The mention of the elder Spengler jarred Peter. "You never told him, did you?"

Egon shook his head, water droplets flying from his glasses. "I - I couldn't. Ray understood, and Mother did eventually, although she still holds out hope, I think, that I'll have a normal marriage someday. Janine knows, although I'm not sure she really understands. I've never told anyone else."

"And you hated yourself for it?" Peter tried to ask the question gently, without soft-pedaling the words.

Egon nodded. "I would put that in the present tense, rather than the past, but yes. For having an unacceptable orientation, for forcing myself on you like that, for trying to take advantage of you when you were drunk, for not being able to commit to Janine even though she needs me, for falling in love with more than one person at once like a common slut, and for -" His voice broke, and became a whisper. "For not being able to let go of someone who so clearly rejected me."

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, that's a lot of things to hate yourself for all at once. You couldn't pick one or two of them to work on and let the rest slide?" Peter felt the joke fall flat as soon as it left his mouth. "Egon, no matter what my drunk and stupid reaction may have been, stealing one kiss in a kissing game that I started is hardly forcing yourself on me or taking advantage of me. There's nothing unacceptable about being either gay or bi, despite what your uptight father may have thought. The stuff about Janine, that's worth worrying about, sure, but you know how she'd feel if she thought she was hurting you." The last one, at least, hit home; he felt Egon tense up and then relax a bit. "And, um, can I guess from your reaction, earlier, and that last part, that you still have some . . . un-brotherly feelings for me after all these years?"

Egon closed his eyes again, turned his face as far from Peter as he could, and whispered "Yes."

Peter looked down at the scientist who made his career and his fame possible, his friend, his brother-in-arms, the person who had seen something other than just the back-slapping, big-talking jock in him and had, for whatever reason, been determined to find out what was under that exterior - and had apparently liked, no, loved, what he found even more than Peter had ever guessed. He checked the knot of tension in his stomach again, picked out one component, and re-verified its identity.

Yup. That was desire. If he was going to act on it, now would be the time.

"I'm somewhere between a 1 and a 2, myself, although if you'd asked me then I would have denied it on a Bible and my mother's gravestone. I hadn't taken anything other than basic Human Sexuality yet. Funny how the advanced courses are more helpful," Peter said in the most casual tone he could muster, leaning in just a little bit.

Egon's eyes fluttered open. His mouth worked for a moment silently as his head snapped back to face Peter. "What?"

Peter leaned in closer. "And since I don't have the benefit of the memory, let's just try this again, hmm?"

"Wha - " Egon's interrogative was interrupted by Peter's lips on his, warm, wet, and slightly slippery. For a second, every muscle in Egon's body went rigid; then he relaxed into the kiss, his own lips pressing gently but firmly onto Peter's mouth. Peter lowered himself gently onto Egon, feeling the swelling he'd brushed against earlier returning and his own body responding in kind. Egon's hands curled around his shoulders, pushing him down towards his partner, as the scientist's lips parted under his, an urgent tongue begging entry into his mouth. He opened eagerly, his own tongue exploring Egon's mouth in turn. Egon's teeth nipped gently at Peter's upper lip as they drew apart to take a ragged breath.

"Peter, thank you." Egon's eyes sparkled with gratitude more than lust. The scholar sighed deeply, and his hands left Peter's shoulders to grab at the sides of the tub again as Egon tensed to push himself to his feet.

"Hey, there, big guy, what're you doing?" Peter was genuinely puzzled again. "You tried it, you didn't like it this time? The bad memory too strong for you?"

"What?" Egon's expression was blank. "You - no, you gave me what I'd been hoping for then, just now. I can't ever thank you enough for that, Peter. That, and the knowledge that you don't - that you don't really hate that part of me, even though I still might. But . . . we are sitting in the bathtub with our uniforms still on, soaking wet."

"That's right," smiled Peter. "We came up here to get these things off, didn't we? And you were absolutely right, the water reconstituted the slime and it's back to being slick instead of nasty and itchy. So the next step," he continued, reaching under Egon's chin for the zipper pull on his uniform, "is to get us both out of these wet clothes."

"But, uh, Peter, I - " Egon sounded almost panicked, as he flung out his arms, not pushing the psychologist away or even trying to stop him, exactly, but trying to protect himself somehow.

"Egon, listen to me," murmured Peter in the most soothing voice he could muster. "If you're not interested, tell me straight out. Yeah, generally speaking, I like women more. But that doesn't mean I'm not interested in men, or in you specifically. I wasn't ready, then, to face that side of myself. I was too wrapped up in what other people thought of me - the guys on the team, my frat brothers, all those Barnard girls. Even then, though, I knew you were beautiful, and I had to be careful thinking about that or it would have taken me places that a star athlete wasn't allowed to go. I probably _did_ return the kiss at first, before I realized we had witnesses and I had a reputation to protect. When I kissed you just now, it wasn't because I felt like I owed it to you; it was because I wanted to. Because I wanted _you_." He shifted his hips forward to emphasize his point; Egon suppressed a groan. "And it sure feels like you still want me, too. You wanna try this out?"

There was a long pause, in which the only sound was the trickle of warm water from the showerhead. Then Egon reached up and slowly, deliberately undid the zipper on Peter's uniform, his off hand playing along the thin, wet fabric of the t-shirt Peter wore underneath. "I cannot imagine," Egon rumbled in a tone low even for his resonant bass, "anything I could possibly desire more in the world."

"That's more like it," crowed Peter, unzipping the scientist's uniform in turn and pushing the collar back around the blond's sculpted shoulders. He felt, rather than watched, Egon's long fingers peel his uniform off in turn, sliding it down his arms with the help of the slickness left by the ectoplasm. They plucked each other's shoes off, tossing them out of the bathtub onto the tiles below the sink, and followed them with their soaked and reeking socks. Egon had put on the jumpsuit over his usual leisure clothing of a pink buttondown Oxford shirt and coffee-brown chinos; Peter had been wearing black jeans and a t-shirt. The jumpsuits got wedged beneath them, along with the t-shirt. Peter leaned forward and began working the buttons on Egon's shirt free, noting with a slight shiver of pleasure that Egon had neglected to put on an undershirt. Egon shrugged off his suspenders and began doing the same to the buttons on Peter's jeans. Their hands got in each other's way too many times to count, and by the time Peter had stripped Egon's pants off, the two of them were laughing, a relaxing, healing laugh rather than the tense one from downstairs.

Egon's hands hesitated at Peter's boxers - red polka dots on a white background; Egon's were a plain light blue - and he looked at Peter, as if he were afraid to break some magic spell by going farther. Peter looked at his partner, plucked off Egon's glasses and set them aside, and swept his own boxers off. Egon looked down, smiled appreciatively, and did the same with his. For a long moment, they sat on the floor of the tub facing each other, naked and wet, their forelocks dangling in front of their eyes as they gazed at each other.

"Now, where were we," Peter asked with a tiny echo of their shared laugh, leaning in for another deep kiss and pushing Egon back. Their limbs untangled as they shifted position, Peter lying on top of Egon, pressed against his whole torso, their mouths never leaving each other. Egon made a small whimpering noise as Peter thrust against him, their erections sliding together. The taller man's body was taut and wet and still slick with the remnants of the slime, and Peter's skin buzzed with a faint aftereffect of the itch, a tingling heightened sensitivity. He shifted his hips to press against Egon and moaned as a sputter of sensation rocketed through his groin. Egon thrust up under him, and he tried to fall into his partner's rhythm, slowing down a little to nip at the expanse of pale skin below Egon's ears and down his neck.

"God, Peter," whispered Egon, his eyes closed tightly, "I can't tell you how much I've wanted this, how long I've needed you like this." He nibbled at Peter's left earlobe, and breathed a gentle warmth down his neck that made every hair on Peter's back stand on end with delight, his hips arching up into his friend.

"Tell me anyway," murmured Peter, reaching one hand around to grip his partner's ass as he slid against him.

"More than anything. For forever." Egon's breathing sped up, turned into little gasps. "Since the first time you spoke up in that first class we had together. God, I've wanted you so much, wanted to feel your skin against me so badly."

"Since I first spoke up?" Peter chuckled, feeling Egon's body tremble against the vibration of his laughter. "Not since you first saw me? So it's my voice you're after, not my toned physique?" He squeezed his partner's buttocks a bit harder, pushing him up into each thrust. "Hey, are you interested in - uh - "

"In intercourse? Very much so, Peter, but I don't - ah - I don't think I'm going to last that long," Egon said breathlessly. "And it's your mind I'm fundamentally - ah! - attracted to, although - ahh - I'll admit your - unh - neither your voice nor your - oh, god - your body are exactly a - oh, ahh - a disincentive - oh god, oh god, oh god . . . "

"Look at me, Egon," interrupted Peter as the rapidly-glazing blue eyes shut again. "Look at me. I want to watch you come."

Egon's eyes fluttered open with an effort as his body began to shiver, quaking with a release that must come too rarely; his voice dissolved into a wordless moan as a sudden warmth and a different sort of slippery stickiness splashed between them. God, he was gorgeous. Peter lowered his forehead against his friend's, and whispered "Just a sec, I'll join you." A few more thrusts into the slick warmth along Egon's skin were enough, and Peter let out one quiet "Holy _fuck_" as he shuddered into his own orgasm, hips bucking.

For a few moments they lay there together, just breathing in rhythm with each other. Finally, Egon struggled to push himself up on one elbow. "Well, now what happens?" he asked, as if he were still worried that this was his only shot at the friend he'd lusted after in secret for so long.

"I don't know," admitted Peter frankly. "We're going to have to talk about it." He kissed Egon on the end of his long nose, then dipped down to nibble at his neck for a moment. As he pushed himself back up to his feet, he admitted, "I don't want this to be our only time, though. We'll have to figure things out. But you're good at that, right, Brainiac?" Peter edged the shower back up to full as Egon regained his footing. "At least we seem to have cleaned most of the slime off of each other."

They scrubbed the last of the ectoplasmic residue off in silence, sharing Peter's shampoo, since it happened to be closest. As they finally shut the water off and began gathering the sodden clothes from the floor, Peter grinned. "Tell you what, Spengs. Since I just gave you your heart's desire, why don't you take care of getting this stuff into the washer, while I figure out where the spud's gotten to and order us a late dinner. Pizza or Chinese?"

"Thai if you can get it delivered at this hour, Chinese if you can't," responded Egon, scooping the last wet sock into the towel he was using as a makeshift laundry bag and heading downstairs without protest. It seemed to Peter as if his partner - and now he was going to have to rethink what he meant by that, wasn't he? - was standing a little easier than he'd seen in a long time. Peter smiled gently, wrapped a towel around his own waist, and headed for the kitchen.


End file.
